We exited the pickup truck that we came in and followed a small dirt path to the right. As we quickly crested a short incline, we found ourselves in the narrow courtyard of an old, crumbling house made of adobe bricks. In the front yard stood a small, dazed child who watched us silently as we approached the house. His eyes followed us with a blank expression, and it was not apparent if he was able to totally register the events that were transpiring around him. His mother appeared in the doorway of the house, and came toward us. On her back was slung a small infant, held by the traditional Guatemalan sling used for carrying babies, and in her arms was another small child. As she approached, it was obvious that the the child in her arms had a very severe double cleft lip. His nose seemed perched above his mouth on a small island of skin, and the deep furrows running down from each side were marked with the residue of dried blood.
This family, the Mayan Family staffers informed us, had a total of five children. The father of the family was still present in the picture, but he was able to find very little work and could not generate any appreciable income. Because of this, the family had very little to eat. As we looked around at the crumbling walls of the house, at the bare kitchen and the small and makeshift beds in the largest room, as well as the vacant eyes of the little boy, the family's poverty and malnutrition was evident. Sometimes, we were told, neighbors who passed by on the road would give them small gifts of food. Once, a month previous, Mayan Families had also been able to bring them a bag of food. "For a little while," the staff member told us, "the children ate well. But now, they're back to eating only tortillas and salt."
Feeling like some sort of paparazzi, we edged our way into the tight confines of the house, snapping pictures as we went. We took record of the bedroom, the kitchen, and lastly the concrete toilet of their latrine, wedged seemingly in the far corner of the kitchen, separated from it by only a sheet. The whole setting, from the cleft lip baby, to the uncommunicative child, to the mother trying to keep her family alive in this stark landscape, was heart wrenching. It was yet another moment in which I realized that no matter how much I am able to do, how much aid and relief that I can be a part of bringing to these people, that there is always more to be done. There is no time for self-congratulation, there is no point at which success can be considered achieved, no moment when victory can be celebrated. There is never a time at which we can declare, "Mission Accomplished."
But, for as difficult as the time there with the family was, seeing them brought back memories of a distant past, when I had first arrived here in Guatemala, a seeming lifetime ago. On that day, I accompanied Lloyd and a couple other volunteers up to the home of a family in the village of Santa Catarina. It was during my first few days in the country, and though I had noted the poverty that I saw in the people begging for money on the street and some of the ragged dwellings here in Pana, I was not ready for what I encountered on that day.
After winding our way through the small callejones of the village, we finally veered to the right off the main paved walkway, walking on a small dirt trail to the home of Concepcion and her family. What I saw there shook me deeply. I was overwhelmed by the dinginess and filth that was present everywhere, from the grimy pots that sat beside the charred sticks of her cooking fire, to the soot and dirt that seemed embedded in every part of the one room in which they lived. One of the family's three children came out to greet us, and I had to fight recoiling at his grimy clothes and at the mucus that streaked down from his nose to his upper lip. It was obvious that it had been running unchecked for some time, as the dirt that coated his face was also built up deep within the edges of the slick trails.
In that moment, I realized that I was going to have to make a decision. I had been talking for months about coming down to Guatemala, about experiencing what it meant to lead a simple life, about learning what it really meant to love my neighbor, to sacrifice and suffer to help those in need. But now, I was facing one of those neighbors, I was facing someone in need, and I was having to fight a horde of impulses that told me that this was more than I had signed on for, that this was horrid and unsanitary, and that it was more than I was capable of enduring. But I did stay. I took strength from the other volunteers that I was there with who seemed unfazed, and I said a prayer for strength, and I endeavored to open myself up to what I was seeing and to let it change me.
I still have a long way to go. I am still more attached to my comfort than I should be, and I still, at times, find myself averting my eyes from poverty and need, and trying to find excuses of why I am not my brother's keeper. But, standing there last week with that family in San Andres, I realized that, though I still have a long way to go, I've come a long way, too. There was no urge to run that I had to fight; instead, there were only thoughts of the logistics of building this family another house. There were no feelings of squeamishness or nausea to overcome, instead, there were only calculations of how to arrange to bring this family food, of finding a surgeon to repair the child's cleft lip.Mother Theresa said, "I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love." Though I know I'm still a long way from learning the entirety of what this means, as I look back, I see that the past two and a half years have been an amazing glimpse of how true this can be.
Can you please post more? Your thoughts are incredible to read.
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